


Sick and Sad (but Safe)

by stardust_and_sunlight



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (was Maura16), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cute, Fluff, HE HAS A REALISATION, M/M, and the other amis appear briefly, but he doesn't realise it's a realisation, enjolras is daft, pre exr really, sick-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_and_sunlight/pseuds/stardust_and_sunlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras denies being sick. Grantaire looks after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick and Sad (but Safe)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this when Summer was sick and continued it when I was sick and now I've finally got round to finishing it, a month later, when I'm sick. Again. Hey ho.  
> Hope you like it!  
> Reviews and kudos are much appreciated and cherished and stored in a figurative box for when I'm sad!

None of them even noticed anything was wrong until Enjolras shouted at Combeferre, and this was so out of character for him that everyone just stopped what they were doing and stared.

They were in the back room of the Musain, and the meeting was drawing to a close. They were all tired and cranky and it was so hot and stuffy but Enjolras had never raised his voice to Combeferre before. The two friends argued, of course, but it was always civil, even when it was passionate. This was _weird_ , no denying it.

As they watched, eyes wide, Enjolras sat down suddenly, pressing a hand to his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight and level. “I have a headache.”

Courfeyrac sighed heavily, drawing worried gazes, and moved to where a pale-faced Enjolras was sitting. He crouched beside him.”How long have you had a headache, Enjolras? And have you been feeling unwell?”

Enjolras frowned. “A couple of days? And I feel sorta... fuzzy? And too warm...”

Courf shook his head in annoyance. “You always fucking do this, Enjolras!”

“There’s no shame in being ill, you know,” interjected Combeferre, standing next to Enjolras and frowning in disapproval.

Joly was at his side in a flash, pressing a hand to Enjolras’ forehead. “He’s burning up,” he said anxiously. “He needs liquids, paracetamol, and rest.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” insisted Enjolras, an irritated look on his face. “The _meeting_...” He stood up suddenly, and then swayed, immediately collapsing back into the chair.

“The meeting’s finished anyway,” said Combeferre firmly, and all at once the group promptly dispersed, the room filling with concerned whispers and everyone discussed in the strange behaviour of their leader in hushed undertones.

Combeferre reassured Joly that he would get Enjolras home safe, and make sure he went to bed, and everyone gradually filed out, waving goodbye.

Courfeyrac turned to Ferre, ignoring Enjolras. “How are we gonna get him home? He can’t take the subway like this!” he said, gesturing to Enjolras’ pale face, and eyes hazy with pain.

“I can drive him,” came a voice from behind them, and Courf spun around in surprise. Grantaire smiled weakly. “I’ve got my car, I can drive him. And I’ve not been drinking, don’t worry,” he added, pre-empting the question.

Courf and Ferre looked at their woozy friend, and then glanced at each other, having one of their silent conversations.

“Okay,” said Courf, nodding, slinging an arm around Enjolras and pulling him to his feet. “Sounds good.”

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’ other arm and together they made it to the car, Enjolras still mumbling about how he was fine.

Courf and Ferre looked on worriedly as Grantaire strapped first Enjolras, and then himself in.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”  Courf asked, biting his lip.

Grantaire smirked. “I have two little sisters,” he said, starting the car. “I can deal with sick people.”

“Just… Text us, okay?”

Grantaire nodded, and then the car pulled away and they were gone, Grantaire muttering something about overly dependent friendship groups as he drove through the darkening streets.

::::::

Enjolras woke up in an unfamiliar bed and sat up in a panic, groaning as a searing pain shot through his head. He gasped, squinting against the light.

“Hey, hey, calm down, it’s okay,” came a soothing voice, and then there were gentle hands pushing him down. He went willingly, head pounding, eyes firmly closed.

“Who is that?” he croaked, unable to place the voice. There was a low chuckle.

“It’s Grantaire,” the voice said, sounding amused. “Don’t you remember? I was driving you home, but you fell asleep, and I don’t know where you live. I didn’t want to wake you, so I took you back to mine. I hope that was okay?” he asked anxiously.

Enjolras sunk deeper into the pillows, breathing in a scent that he now recognised as _Grantaire_. He felt safe and secure, bundled up in a duvet, and he would have been perfectly content if it wasn’t for his pounding head and aching muscles and sore throat.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.                                                                                                 

“How are you feeling?” asked Grantaire, and Enjolras, who didn’t want to open his eyes against the harsh brightness, could hear him moving about the room. “You slept for over nine hours.”

“Shit,” said Enjolras weakly, “I’m so sorry! And I stole your bed and I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have let me sleep that long-“

“Apollo, it’s fine,” interrupted Grantaire. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not the first time I’ve slept on the couch, I always have pillows and stuff out there. How are you feeling?”

Enjolras frowned. “I feel better, but not _good_.”

Grantaire laughed. “I’m not bloody surprised, Apollo. Colds are fucking terrible, you’re not supposed to fight it, you’re supposed to go to bed and complain until it goes away. As loath as I am to channel both Combeferre _and_ Joly, you really should have given up sooner,” he said, and Enjolras could hear the disapproval and worry in his tone.

“I know I call you Apollo, but you’re not a god, and even you get sick sometimes.”

Enjolras bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I just-”

Grantaire cut him off. “Yeah, I know. But you gave us all a scare and it was just a stupid cold. Promise you won’t do that again?”

Enjolras nodded, suitably chastised, and then groaned as he became aware of how shitty he felt.

“Here, I’ll get you a drink and some paracetamol, and then you can rest, oka- what?”

Enjolras must have made an involuntary grimace or something, and now he could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. “I, um. I can’t really swallow tablets.”

“Oh, really,” said Grantaire, and Enjolras could _hear_ his smirk, the bastard. “I think I have some Calpol left from when Gavroche was here, would that be okay?”

Enjolras nodded, cheeks burning, and then he heard Grantaire leave the room, chuckling as he went.

He lay there in the quiet for a minute with his eyes closed, and then his curiosity got the better of him. He carefully opened his eyes a tiny bit, allowing them time to acclimatise to what felt like a bright light, but what turned out to be a little bedside lamp sitting on the floor, leaving him feeling a little bit ridiculous with his eyes scrunched up.

He looked around Grantaire’s room, drinking the sight in. The room was small and cluttered. There was the bed, piled high with pillows and duvets and blankets, and a desk with a chair, and a chest of drawers, and that was it for the furniture. The drawers were open, clothes spilling out, and there were more clothes piled randomly across the floor, but what Enjolras was most struck by was the sheer amount of art supplies.

He knew that Grantaire could draw, of course, had seen him sketching in his notebook all the time, but this was a whole other level. The desk was piled high with sketchpads and tubes of paint and brushes and coffee cups, and a stack of canvases in varying stages of completion. There were bigger canvases resting against the walls, some draped in ratty sheets. There were pens and pencils and paper all over the place.

And what he could see... Wow. There was an incredibly detailed black and white painting of Éponine across from him, and another, much more abstract painting of Jehan, all done in bright, clashing colours and wide brushstrokes. Enjolras didn’t know much about art, but he could tell that this was _amazing._ Why had Grantaire never _said?_

And then Enjolras looked more closely at one of the walls. At first glance, he’d saw the photos, and assumed it was some sort of collage, and it was. But it was all pictures of them, of all their friends.

Of them, together and individually, at meetings and at parties and at movie nights. Jehan and Éponine at a poetry slam, faces fierce and fists clenched. Cosette on stage at her concert, body straight and arm pulling the bow back. Feuilly and Bahorel arm-wrestling, Marius laughing, Combeferre and Courfeyrac with their arms around each other, Joly and Bossuet and Chetta all cuddled up together...

And it wasn’t just photos. There were train tickets from days out; a thread bracelet that he remembered Cosette making; doodled-on minutes from meetings; sheets of paper covered in Jehan’s handwriting- their poems, Enjolras guessed; what looked like the notes from one of Enjolras’ speeches... And sketches, so many little sketches, some rough, some more detailed, of absolutely everything and everyone.

Enjolras just gaped. Looking at this wall, there was absolutely no doubt at all that Grantaire absolutely adored his friends. This was a wall of memories, a sentimental and _wonderful_ wall, and Enjolras just lay there and smiled.

He was still smiling dopily when Grantaire returned, a cup of water, a glass bottle of what Enjolras assumed was medicine and a soup spoon between his teeth.

“I difn’t haf a medifine sfoon,” he said. Enjolras frowned at him.

Grantaire put the cup and bottle on the floor, taking the spoon out of his mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t have a medicine spoon,” he explained, gesturing with the spoon. “I’m sure it’ll be fine though,” he said reassuringly, examining the label on the bottle. “I’m sure a little too much _Calpol_ won’t hurt you.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“Oi,” said Grantaire, pointing the spoon at Enjolras, “no eye-rolling. You’re the one who can’t take tablets.”

Enjolras sighed. “Are you ever going to forget that?” he croaked.

Grantaire laughed. “Never,” he said, “but you sound shit, so Calpol now.”

He carefully poured the sticky liquid into the spoon, and the held it out to Enjolras. “Open up!” he said cheerily. Enjolras glowered at him, opening his mouth and swallowing the sickly medicine.

“I’m not a child,” he said grumpily.

Grantaire chuckled. “I know, I’m just messing with you.”

He picked up the cup of water, placing it on the chest of drawers. “You should sleep now,” he said.

“No, you should have your bed back,” Enjolras protested weakly.

Grantaire scoffed. “Seriously, Apollo, it’s cool. Just sleep, okay?”

Enjolras sighed. “Fine,” he said, his sulkiness overshadowed by the eager way he sunk into the pillows, pulling up the quilt pile to his chin, closing his eyes, sleep already overcoming him.

“Night,” he muttered, and Grantaire turned off the light.

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Grantaire said quietly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight.”

Enjolras smiled sleepily, feeling terrible and achy but warm and cosy and _happy_ for some odd reason… Which he would analyse when he felt better.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I may have stretched the severity of Enjolras' cold... But colds are dreadful, to be fair. And Enjolras is definitely the type to ignore it stubbornly in the hope that it'll go away.  
> 2\. I used to not be able to take tablets, and my family ruthlessly mocked me for it. Sigh.  
> 3\. Enjolras literally has his eyes closed for almost 500 words of this. I don't even know.


End file.
